


The Steadfast Soul

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: @posingasme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, The Bond of Brothers, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10698369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: It's been a very long time since Sam considered he might one day have peace. But a hunt has left him changed, transformed into something entirely new, and he has a chance at a happy, beautiful life. He fights against this peaceful retirement. And if you know him, you know why...





	1. Wisps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ameliacareful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/gifts).



There was no sound for a long time. No smell. Nothing to see. Sam thought perhaps he should be frightened, but he wasn't. His only perception was peace.

He had never felt anything like it. Nonetheless, it didn't surprise him at all that it didn't last long. That's how life went. If a Winchester was too content for too long, clearly something was very wrong.

“Where the hell is he?”

Ah. Dean was angry and panicking. That sounded about right.

“Sam? Can you hear us?”

“Sammy!”

“I hear you,” he muttered.

The angel and the hunter looked at one another. “You feel that?”

Castiel nodded with a frown. “I felt something. What did you experience?”

“Guys, I'm here.”

Dean shook his head. “I don't know. Like a weird breeze. Like…like a warm cold spot.”

Sam's vision was clearing, and he stared at Dean.

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“You know what I mean!” Dean snapped. “Like a cold spot, a ghost, except...warm.”

A twinge of fear sparked in Sam's heart. “Guys? I didn't...Can you hear me?”

“There it is again, but it's-”

“Sharpening,” Castiel finished.

The hunter was beginning to breathe shallowly. “Yeah. That's-What does that even mean? That's the right word. The air is getting sharp. I can't-How can air be sharp?”

“Dean, I suggest we move out of this space. Now.”

“Not gonna happen. My brother is here someplace, and I'm going to-”

“Now!” Castiel snapped, and grabbed Dean's arm to force him out the door.

Sam hurried behind them, and got out just before the door slammed. He turned in time to see an explosion of light, like a demon dying on Ruby’s blade, but purple. “What the crap was that?” he shouted.

“What the crap was that?” Dean shrieked.

Castiel shook his head. “I'm not certain. But I think we have narrowly escaped a squall.”

“A what?” the brothers shouted together.

Castiel looked directly at Sam, frowned deeper, then turned back to Dean. “A squall. It is a type of nymph. A quite dangerous one.”

Dean shook his head. “Whatever. What'd it do to my brother?”

“Dude, I'm right here. I got knocked on my ass for a minute, got the wind knocked out of me. But I'm fine-”

“Squalls have a volatile nature. They are sentient storms, essentially. If we've managed to anger one...It is powerful enough to have literally blown him out of existence.”

Dean's eyes widened. He shoved past the angel, and threw himself at the door. Castiel grabbed him just in time to prevent him from falling into the pit which had been a second story bedroom just a moment ago. Sam also tried to grab his brother, and found himself flying right through him instead. Dean screamed in pain as Sam passed directly through his body to fall into the destroyed room himself.

He did not feel the impact of the ground.

“What the hell was that?” Dean roared.

“Sam,” Castiel said in a whisper. “Sam? Sam, are you here?”

The hunter tried to stand, and realized he wasn't even touching the ground. “Oh holy crap,” he wheezed. “Cas! Castiel, can you hear me? Are you seeing this?”

His friends were talking above him, as he stared up from the hole in the construction. But he couldn't make out what they were saying, and just before he gave in to his own panic, a figure appeared beside him. It was like seeing someone through a concussion. Sam wished he didn't know what that was like, but tried to focus his eyes and brain on the problem at hand.

“Sam,” it said in a hollow voice.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Oiteag. And your angel companion is partially correct. I'm a squall. But a nymph! That piece of rubbish has been floated about since the Greeks were slandering my kind. Nymph. Poseidon started that rumor.”

Sam put his hands up. “Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. We don't have much experience with...whatever you are.”

“Whatever we are.”

“Yeah. You and your buddy who just freaking exploded all over the damn place.”

Oiteag seemed to sigh. “That squall was born angry, and died angry. I'm simply here to help blow away the remains.”

Sam squinted at him. “So...you're a squall reaper?”

“No. But you can think of it that way if your small mind needs a metaphor.”

“What the hell happened to me? What's with the floating and my friends not hearing me?”

The figure’s face seemed to be coming into focus, and Sam was getting the impression that he was boring the thing. “Look. Smùide had come to the end of his long, miserable life, and he had become somewhat obsessed with procreation in the past few decades.”

“Pro...procreation…”

Oiteag blinked at him with exasperation. “Procreation. It means having offspring.”

Sam clenched his jaw. He couldn't feel it, which was strange. “I know what the word means.”

“Good. Then we’re done here? You're oriented and all that? Blowing remains is one thing. Education of infant squalls is really not my forte.”

Now his jaw loosened until Sam's mouth hung agape. “You think...you think I'm the offspring? No! I'm a freaking hunter! A human!”

“And that may be exactly what you were before Smùide, the most obnoxiously fuming squall since Monsoon Herself blew up your skirt, then blew himself up. But now you're one of us. Congrats, or...whatever.”

“Dean! Cas?”

Oiteag stared at him as though he were stupid. “I think we covered that they are unable to perceive your vocals. Not the way you want them to. You're just moving air.”

“Look, I'm not...whatever you think I am! I wasn't bitten; I wasn't slimed.”

“You were blown.”

He could practically hear Dean's voice in his head, responding to that. “Okay! So how do I undo it?”

“Return to a fleshform?” He blinked again. “Not sure why you'd want to. I mean, you're not an angry tempest, or even a gale. You're definitely not a moronic iomghaoth. You're a zephyr. First time I think I ever saw a zephyr borne of a dying tempest, but I guess there are stranger things.”

“You're using words I don't…”

The thing was beginning to seem impatient, and that's when Sam finally realized that his own vision was not blurred; the figure itself was a blur. The air around them was being affected by the squall’s level of agitation.

“Listen. When a fleshform is turned, its nature is determined by its truest desires and character. Most of us are created by the Tuath Dé, the gods, but some, like you, are blown into existence by the death of a squall. And as far as life goes? This is an upgrade. You'll learn in a cycle or two to let the last of your worries and fears and insecurities go. Those are flesh things. Your true nature is a zephyr, friend. That's about as good as it gets.”

“Is that what you are?”

Oiteag snorted. “No. I was born a crosswind. Fated to cross paths with travelers all my days.”

“Then what's a zephyr?”

“You're a zephyr, a gentle breeze, warm and calming. Your true nature, as it turns out, is quite pleasant, once it's rid of the last of the flesh sensations. A friend of mine so long ago, she was quite continental, you know, but she was a sweet thing. Some say she was cold and dry, but Mistral was a sort of zephyr, and she used to tell me stories about the humans who loved her. Zephyrs are the best loved among the winds. Storms are often feared and respected. But zephyrs are truly loved. As they should be. They are the best among us.”

“Why would I be…”

Oiteag gave a strange little shrug. “You must have been a good human. I can see wisps of anger and grief, a few of resentment, which all might have become aggression in a fleshform. But beneath all that, you're gentle and selfless. You're warm. You're a healing wind, not a destructive one. Now, if you're done with questions, I'd like to get back to business discarding of the angry old blowhard and the mess he left behind.”

Sam didn't see any mess, other than the destruction of the building, but he knew that wasn't what Oiteag was referring to. “Wait! You never told me how to reverse this!”

The crosswind frowned at him. “It's Sam, right? That's what they keep saying up there.”

He startled, and when he did, he realized a shuddering breeze was emanating from him. He had forgotten his brother and Castiel. Only for a moment, but he had. His mind had drifted…

“Sam, the old squall blew your soul from your flesh and destroyed it. This is you now. And like I said, consider it an upgrade. Those wisps of residual anger and negativity? They'll die down over time, and all you'll feel is peace. You're a zephyr. This is your reward for having a good heart and a steadfast soul. Don't fight against it.”

“But my family…”

“Be with them if you like. They'll perceive you, even if they don't know it's you. And you'll bring them peace too. But in time, your attachments will fade. And that's all right.”

Sam wanted to cry. He wanted to fight. But something was holding him back, whispering gentle breaths in his ear, telling him this was the best case scenario. For a Winchester to become this ethereal thing, to know peace and bring comfort to others...This was the best offer he was going to get. Not only that, but it seemed incurable anyway. Maybe this was it. His retirement. Not dead, so impossible to bring back. Not in Heaven or Purgatory or Hell. Just breathing through life on a peaceful wind.

And what about Dean?

Sam's gaze lowered to find that his feet and legs were no longer as he remembered, but simple wisps of air floating about him.

What about Dean?

He looked up to see the squall watching him without his earlier irritation. He tried a smile, and could feel the air warm around him. Oiteag seemed to smile back. Sam took a breath. “For a crosswind who thinks teaching isn't his forte, you've been very helpful to me,” he murmured kindly.

Surprised pleasure lit Oiteag’s aura, giving it a mild, nearly imperceptible blue hue. “I'm glad I have. Good luck, Zephyr Sam.”

“Thank you.” He watched Oiteag spin and blow through the destruction, and at last he could see the different, nearly malignant remains of his sire being collected and neutralized, becoming a part of the thing that was Oiteag. Something struck him about this, and a blooming new set of instincts whispered to him that Oiteag must be extremely strong to absorb these remaining, broken winds without allowing them to taint his own spirit. He was pleased by that. Perhaps Smùide was his creator, but Oiteag was his teacher, and something about him reminded him of an old mentor of his, one of the smartest men Sam had ever known, who had been gruff in his administration of love, but loved with all his heart nevertheless.

What would Bobby say about this whole thing?

A voice filled his mind, swirling in the air around him. “When it's your time to go...go.”

Sam closed his eyes and felt contentment fill him. Permission. He was being given permission to stand down. It was his time to go.

_But what about Dean?_


	2. Whirl

The stench of alcohol and despair flooded Sam's senses when he finally made his way to the bunker. It had taken a very long time. Traveling as wind was going to take a great deal of practice. Along the way, he had encountered three other winds, one natural storm, and two living squalls. One had been wholly unintelligible. Sam was not entirely certain how they were communicating, since he was beginning to understand that it was not language as he had always known it, but that particular one made no sense whatsoever. It simply seemed to sing a tuneless song and murmur randomly on its way through. 

“Don't mind him,” a voice whispered. “Too high in the atmosphere, he is. Never comes down where it's sensible-like.”

Sam had looked all around him, and finally saw a bit of breeze below. He went to clear his throat in a nervous habit, but as he had no such thing, it just made a strange whooshing noise. 

“You all right, zep? You're fine. Breathe a minute, will you? That's right. What's a good zep like you doing trying to chat with a stupid thing like that up there, then?”

“What is it?”

“Headwind. Can't never decide what direction should he be going. Stupid thing. You're a newborn, ain't you, zep? Name’s Mhuiràirde. Who’s your sire?”

He turned away from staring at the bumbling headwind. “Doesn't a headwind just mean it's going against where you're trying to go?”

“Ah. A newblown fleshform. No, you're thinking like a human, you are. Could be worse. I met a poor fox got blown once. Was in a terrible state till I got him straightened out. Little guy kept trying to run. You never get nowhere like that, you won't.”

Sam began to smile, even as he cringed a bit. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Right. Got to think like a proper wind, you do. Who’d you say sired you, then?”

“Uh...Smùide. Or that's what Oiteag told me.”

A bluster of emotions burst from the breeze. “Oiteag! Ain't seen that old cross in a cycle or more!”

“A cycle. He said that too. Is that a year?”

The breeze felt confused for a moment, then brightened again. “Not a year. A cycle for a squall is different from a human or a fox, see? Winds don't care much about rounding the sun, zep. The Tuath Dé got cycles all their own. I expect a cycle of ours is more like 42 of those you're used to. Maybe more. Maybe less. Don't pay much attention to the fleshform myself. Say you was sired by Smùide?” There came a shudder from the breeze. “That old tempest blew you and you came out a zephyr?” A breathless laugh wisped around him. “That's about the best thing I've ever heard. He'd have died of embarrassment if he hadn't died in the first place. A sweet zephyr, blown from that old monster. Good riddance. Who ever would've thought Smùide might do something good for the world?”

Sam stared. “You mean me?”

“You're a zephyr. Ain't much better for the world than that. What's your name, zep?”

This was just surreal. “It's Sam.”

“Zephyr Sam. Real glad to know you. Old Smùide was a nasty thing, and why he chose you when it was his time, I don't know, but he finally done something right. World can't have too many zephyrs, Sam, and you're about the strongest one I ever seen. Smùide must've chose you for your strength, but joke’s on him, because you're also good. If he meant to recreate himself, he missed, and we’re all lucky for that.”

“Where does a squall go when he dies?”

Surprise lit the breeze. “Go? We just get absorbed by a crosswind, or we settle into stillness. Ain't no more go after we've blown ourselves out. But a breeze like me or a zep like you, it'll be an eternity before that happens. We don't live hard and fast like some winds. We’re here to comfort, not to destroy. Even great Monsoon would have told you it's all about being steady. She lasted as long as she did because she concentrated her rage on where it could be helpful, where she could bring the rains, and then she stayed settled till she needed to vent it again, in a human’s year. It was planned, calculated rage that kept her going, she said. Steady. I'm steady. I'll fade out eventually, I assume, but I'll never blow out the way Smùide must've, I won't. A breeze don't got any business being reckless. I move place to place, but I'm always steady. Getting time for me to move on, speaking of it. Good luck to you, Sam. Steer clear of headwinds that ain't got them the sense to come down out of the clouds before their thoughts scatter.”

“I'll do that,” Sam promised. 

The breeze gave him one final smile. “A new zephyr. Too rare, you are. Very glad to know you, Sam. Take care.”

“You too?” He hadn't meant it to be a question, but he was so out of place that he had no idea what being polite meant for these creatures. 

He continued along his path toward the bunker, running the conversation over and over.

Sam had been called special all his life. Most of the time, it had sounded like “freak,” even when it was meant as a compliment. Countless teachers had recognized that he was gifted, and other children had always pegged him as different at a glance. Sometimes that was a good thing, but often students looked at the quiet boy, who tried to hide behind his hair, with suspicion. Then there was the year he spent trying to tear himself from the designation as one of Azazel’s Special Children, only to find out that there had never been any contest, that Sam was always meant to be Lucifer's true vessel. 

Sam had always been special, and he had always hated it. 

This was different. This was something truly nice. This was being recognized on sight as good at his core. Not strange. Rare. Not a freak. His true nature was good. 

Good. 

The boy with the demon blood, Lucifer's meatsuit, the unclean abomination. His true nature was good. It was all he had ever wanted, he realized suddenly, to know, really know without a doubt, that he was one of the good guys. 

He wished he could show Dean and Castiel. 

Dean was smoking outside the bunker when he arrived at last. It was such an unfamiliar sight that Sam gave a startled shiver. The effect was that the cigarette blew completely out of Dean's hand, and onto the ground. 

“The hell?” his brother grumbled. He stood on unsteady feet and stomped on it before it could spark. 

“You're smoking!” Sam cried out. “What the hell? You haven't smoked since high school!” 

His memory flashed back to the week years ago when Meg had rode him around, stealing cigarettes and killing hunters. Dean had remarked that it had sounded more like him than Sam. Dean had practiced picking pockets by lifting cigarettes back when they were teenagers, and he had occasionally smoked them too if John were out of town on a hunt without him. Sam remembered it as the way he silently punished his father for leaving him behind. “I wouldn't be smoking if I had a hunt!” he had complained once when Sam had said it was stupid. “Think I want some werewolf smelling me coming? No. But I don't got a hunt, do I, smartass? No, I got final exams. This is bullshit. I'm dropping out as soon as I can. Till then, I'm doing what I want to do. So either sit and smoke with me or leave me alone.” He had stopped completely when John had let him leave school to be a full time hunter, and Sam had never seen him with one again. 

Till now. “You're drinking alone too,” Sam sighed. “Healthy.”

Suddenly, Dean whirled. “I said come and get me!” he screamed. “I gotta say it again? Who doesn't want a piece of Dean Winchester? Come on! Crowley, you jackass, you can hear me! Every damn angel I ever pissed off! Every vamp ever got my scent! Where the hell are you?”

Sam stared. “Dean, stop!”

“I'm done with this! Come and get me, you bastards! I hunted you my whole life! The least you can do is hunt me this one time I'm asking!” He dropped to the ground with a thud, sobbing painfully. “I'm too worn out to-to find you, so come to me. All you fanged and clawed and black-eyed freaks out there, you come to me this time!” A nauseating laugh sprang out of the tears. “I probably killed a friend of yours at some point. I killed so many things I could never count! So come get me. Dean Winchester is on the menu, but the special’s gonna go fast. Hurry and get your pound of flesh!”

Horror filled Sam as he realized that one of those creatures probably would find him if he sat and shouted at the night long enough. He wrapped his arms around his brother to hush him. “You gotta stop, man! Please!”

Dean sat back, leaning on his hands. “Warm,” he groaned. “Even smells like you, man.” He reached for his flask and lifted it, sloshing more on his chest than into his mouth. “God, just tell me what to do. I'm so tired, Sammy. Please, just tell me what I'm supposed to do.”

Sam tried to hold tighter, desperate to make a connection of any kind. 

“God, Sammy. Please. You gotta help me. Cas thinks I've lost my mind. If I can't help you, man, I want to be done too. Just let me be done. I want to go out fighting, Sam. I can't do this without you. You've been gone for weeks.”

The zephyr drifted back in shock. “Weeks! It was...just today…”

But it wasn't. Dean would never have been back to the bunker in a day, even if he had left the scene immediately, which he surely hadn't. How long had Sam been working his way toward their secret base? And he had wandered through the bunker too, smelling the alcohol and grief. How long had Sam been there, haunting his brother? It felt as though he had just arrived, had just spoken with the other squalls, had just encountered the strange headwind, but that was a long time ago, wasn't it? A week at least since he had met the breeze, and listening to Oiteag had happened at least two weeks before that. How had Sam lost so much time? How could he feel as though it were all just one long afternoon? 

Now Dean was walking through the bunker, and he felt anger pouring off him. “Castiel!” he bellowed. His deep voice reverberated through the empty halls, and through Sam as well. “Get your feathered ass down here!”

Sam was beginning to wonder if Castiel had use of his wings again, but then he heard the angel descending the stairs. Fondness washed over Sam as he watched his friend. 

“Dean, I'm here. You don't need to shout…” The angel stopped on the last step and narrowed his eyes. “Dean?”

The hunter was yanking at his hair, which was longer than Sam thought he had ever seen it. He looked feral, with a three day beard. “He's here. Cas, he's here. Okay? I don't know how, and I don't care. You think I'm crazy. I'm not. I can feel him, dammit!”

Castiel stepped slowly toward Dean. “Where do you feel him?”

“Where?” Dean's hands gestured wildly. “Here! All over! He's here!”

Sam sighed sadly. “I am here,” he whispered. 

Castiel's gaze narrowed even more. “Dean, I'm going to help you sleep. All right? Please don't fight me. You need sleep.”

“I don't want to sleep! I want to save my damn brother!”

“Your brother is dead, Dean. I'm sorry.”

Dean stared in loathing at his friend's betrayal. “He's not dead. He's here. He's here, you freaking bastard! And I'm going to find a way to save him.”

Sam watched his brother stalk toward his bedroom in fury. He could feel Castiel's sigh more than hear it. 

“Sam,” he murmured quietly. “I wish you could tell me what to do. Dean is coming apart. I've read everything I can find on nymphs, and none of it matches up with what happened to you. I've never been the researcher you are. Were. I don't know where I've gone wrong. I've tried everything I know to discover whether you could still be alive somehow. I've tried to keep Dean stable, tried to...I've never been the brother you were either. And it is difficult trying to comfort someone else, which I've never been good at anyway, while grieving so terribly inside my own heart.”

The zephyr looked around them with panic. He hurried to the library on a hunch, and scanned the volumes quickly. 

Castiel continued behind him, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Not that...not that I have any right to...Your brother’s grief is far more…” He blinked strangely, and Sam realized he was fighting against tears. “I'm trying to care for him, Sam. But I'll never do anything the way you would have. If you've got guidance...I don't follow orders well, Sam, but I'm at a loss without them now. If you truly can hear and understand, please tell me. Give me a sign somehow.”

At last, Sam found what he was looking for, and threw himself toward it. 

Castiel turned as the book slammed onto the floor. He stared at it briefly, then bent to pick it up. After looking it over, he smiled, with a bit of a tremble. “I've missed you, Sam,” he whispered. 

He placed the handbound book, The Symbolism of Wind in Freemasonry, labeled MOL32KS2, on the table. Sam had only just begun skimming it before they found the strange killer storm case. Even for the Men of Letters’ work, it was dry reading. 

But Castiel had understood. He gripped the back of a chair too tightly, to ground himself. “I've missed you,” he said again. “Sam, are you in pain? Can you tell me if you're in pain?”

The question shocked Sam, set him back literally. But he moved toward his old friend again. 

Castiel cringed. “I must help you help me. Forgive me.” He hurried around the room, until he had found a marker and two papers. He wrote YES and NO on them, and placed them far apart on the table. “Will this work?”

Sam smiled softly. He would love to point out that if it didn't, there would be no way to say so. He had always enjoyed messing with the angel in little ways like that. He still smirked every time he heard someone ask if they could ask a question. For whatever reason, it simply tickled him that he could throw the angel off balance. 

Instead, he approached the YES, and let his tendrils of wind flutter over it. It wasn't so different from using his hands, now that he had figured it out. He wouldn't be able to exert any fine motor operation, but he wasn't worried about that. He wasn't worried about anything, in fact, and that alone was a little jarring. 

“Yes? Good. Yes. Sam? Are you in pain?”

No. 

The hard exhale of relief ended with a gasping sob. 

Sam stared as the angel broke down and stumbled into a chair. He seemed so human suddenly. Certainly, he was more human than Sam was now. When Castiel put his head into his trembling hands, Sam wasn't even sure what to think of it. 

“Every moment since you've been gone, I...It's like your time in Hell. In the Cage. I had no way of knowing what my brothers might be doing to you. But then, at least, I could dive in and fight for you. But this...You could have been dead or in horrible pain, or lost, and I couldn't...Sam I can't bear not being able to help you. I try to tell Dean you're dead, that you're gone, but in my heart, I feared that you were simply out of reach. And when Dean began telling me he could feel you here, I was so afraid that you were trying to tell us you were hurt. And I was helpless. Helpless, and useless, as I always am when you need me.”

Sam frowned and reached for the paper again. 

Castiel startled and looked up. Sam thought he had not seen him so shaken since he had taken on his pain back at that hospital so long ago, and emerged a strange, pale shadow of himself. “No?” He laughed bitterly, and wiped at his tears in irritation. “No. You mean no, I'm not useless? Kind of you.” He sighed now. “Kind. Sam Winchester, who killed perhaps hundreds of creatures in his time. Still the kindest of humans to a poor, useless angel.”

He did the only thing that felt right, and that was to cover Castiel in his wind, to wrap himself over him in soothing warmth. It was instinctive more than conscious, and it nearly surprised Sam just how right it did feel. 

Immediately, he could sense Castiel's pronounced reaction. He felt him whimper as his vessel surrendered to Sam's strength. The coat and dark hair danced as Sam's air moved all around the angel. A very strange delight filled him as he realized something else was ruffling in his wind. 

“Your wings! Cas, I feel your wings!” he laughed. 

The angel sighed out all his exhaustion and painful emotion, as though Sam were absorbing it within his own form. 

Just like Oiteag had done with Smùide. 

He could take on Castiel's pain, as Castiel had once done for him. He could pull it into himself, where it would be neutralized and simply blow away. That was why zephyrs were valued above other squalls, why that crosswind and breeze had said the world was better because of him. He could take on pain and disperse it. 

Castiel nearly collapsed in his grasp. “Sam,” he moaned. “What are you doing, Sam?”

“I'm taking your grief and guilt, Cas. There's so much, it's weighing you down.”

“Is this hurting you somehow? Sam, please don't hurt yourself for me…”

He reached out and touched Castiel's forehead gently, caressed his brow and, in a moment of impulse, he kissed it too. 

Tears streamed down from blue eyes, which flashed with grace suddenly. “Sam,” he breathed. “Sam.”

“Sh, Cas. I'm here. Give me all your hurt. All the guilt, I can see it now. Just give it all to me.”

The wings were soft in his grasp, flying with Sam's joyful wind. In time, Sam calmed, just brushing against Castiel's form in a soothing way. He thought perhaps he had never been more content than he was in this moment, simply holding his angel friend. 

And really, was there any point at all in pretending anymore? Pretending that Sam had ever wanted to be only a friend? That Sam hadn't ached for something else, something far more intimate? He hadn't ever wanted Castiel to know before, but now that he was drifting away from his humanity hour by hour, that was all beginning to seem silly. Perhaps it was unrequited, but it was real, and he would let it fill the air all around them. 

“I love you, Castiel,” he sighed happily. “I love you, and I'm going to keep loving you. It doesn't hurt anymore. You don't have to love me. I don't need that. I used to need it so badly it hurt just to breathe. But now I am breath, and I can breathe in all your pain, and give back to you only love and comfort. I'll do it for Dean now that I know how, and everyone else I can. But I'll get so much joy from doing it for you.”

“Sam,” the angel cried out again, nearly voiceless now. Tears flowed ceaselessly, but dried in Sam's gentle wind. “Sam, you're healing me.” 

“This is all I've ever wanted, Cas. To be good, to do good, and to be good to you.” It was euphoric, nearly orgasmic in a remembered sensation, to feel Castiel's grief and shame break against his wind. He saw the swirls of color, which he knew Castiel could not see, the tainted greens and purples breaking apart into soft hues to be breathed back into the vessel, clean of negative emotion. 

“What are you?” Castiel sobbed. 

“I'm your lover, even if you'll never be mine,” Sam whispered. “Rest, Cas. I want to bring Dean some peace, but I'll come back for you. I finally see what my purpose is, and it's better than any destiny I've fought against my whole life. It took a hunting accident to give me the form I need to be truly happy, to bring Dean peace and help him keep fighting, to help people grieve and keep grinding, and to love an angel without breaking my own heart. Screw Heaven, angel. This is what I want to be forever.”

Castiel's weeping quieted, and he put his heavy head down on his arms. He asked again, in exhaustion. “What are you?”

“I'm a zephyr, Cas. And I'm happy.” He kissed the top of the angel’s head, and slipped away to provide peace for his brother as well. 

Behind him, he caught the whisper. “Father help me. I love you, Sam. God, I love you.”

Sam smiled to himself, and passed through the doors until he found his brother.


	3. On the Other End

Dean was sick to his stomach. He had drunk too much, and smoked too much, and sobbed too much. Everything without Sam was too much. Without his brother to temper him, he was a glutton and a waste. 

He just wanted the room to stop spinning. 

The wind-inside an underground bunker, with reinforced walls and no windows-hit him gently. But instead of cooling him, it made him feel sicker, more feverish. “Sammy,” he wept, “please. Please leave me alone. Please. If you can't tell me how to help you, please just let me die too. I know it's you. It's why no evil thing comes near me, why I can't even pick a fight with a demon. You're shielding me somehow. You gotta stop, man. Just let me go. Let me get torn up in a fight. It's how I want to go out. And if you don't let me go out with guns blazing, I swear I will go out puking in the street. That what you want? You want that for me, Sammy?”

Dean crawled on all fours onto his bed, which probably meant that he had been on the floor beside the bed. He probably had been staring at pictures of his family while trying to give himself alcohol poisoning. He didn't remember. But probably. 

The wind became insistent around him, becoming uncomfortably warm. Dean gagged, then coughed. “Is it you, Sam?” he wondered hoarsely. “Sometimes I'm so sure it's you. Cas talked about squalls, and I did the research, man. I researched harder than I ever did, except when you were in the Pit or when I had that damn tat on my arm. And you know what I learned? A whole lot of nothing. One big L.”

He was surprised he could even produce tears at this point. But there they were, scratching their way down his pale face. 

“I wonder if this is what that year of Purgatory was for you,” he continued in a hiss. “Didn't know what happened to me and Cas, couldn't do a thing about it. Wonder if you felt me haunting you then like you're doing to me now.”

All of the sudden, a laugh burst out from the hunter's throat. It shook the bed. 

“Tell you what, little brother. You stop haunting me or I will tell Cas you're in love with him. You think I didn't know? You want that? I'll tell him.”

The wind seemed to quiet around him. Had it even been there at all? Castiel had mentioned sentient storms, and now Dean was feeling the air move around him indoors. Maybe the bastard was right. Maybe Dean was just losing his mind. 

“Maybe I'm just feeling you everywhere because...Maybe it's just that I want to be punished for what I let happen to you. You know?” He spoke softly now, because at last it was the hard, horrible truth. “Maybe I just want you to torture and hate me because that's what I deserve. And you're too good to haunt me, kid, but it's what I want. I'm too stupid to figure this out. I don't want to believe I let you die. And the reapers...they ain't letting you back again. Not letting you into Heaven. Just gone. And that's on me. So maybe Cas is right, maybe this is all just a nightmare I'm playing for myself all day and night, because I deserve that. I had one job. And I screwed it up. And I'm so sorry, Sam.”

He could hear a whispering wind, a sound like sighing. 

He closed his eyes. “No demon will come near me. I can't...Nobody will deal. Not even his fucking majesty. So what am I supposed to do?” Dean gave a weak smile. “You know I can't even drive? I feel the wind, and I just gotta throw up. I look over there, and see nobody beside me, and I get so sick.”

Everything hurt. His eyes hurt. His head, his throat. His chest ached, and his eyes were swollen, his stomach churning. Every muscle was sore and exhausted. 

“This is it? This is how we go out? Some random hunt, you just smash out of existence, into the Void, and I drink myself to death? Two greatest hunters of all time, you and me, kiddo. And this is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.”

Dean was too tired to startle when the knock came at his door. 

“Go away, Cas!” 

“No.” 

The door opened, and Dean threw his hands up at the ceiling. “Dammit, Cas, leave me the hell alone! You make me pass out again, and I swear I will-”

“Sam is here.”

“I'll...I swear I'll…” His head was heavy on his neck, but he made himself sit up. “Did you say Sam?”

“Sam is here, Dean. That is, he was. A moment ago.”

Dean tumbled out of the bed and back onto the floor he had just crawled off of. “What?”

Castiel put his hand down for Dean to grasp, and pulled him up to stand. “He's here.”

“Can we-Is he-But is he alive? I can't...I can't…” He couldn't hunt his brother. Bobby broke his heart enough by dodging his reaper. 

“He's alive, Dean. But he's been turned.”

Dean's heart calmed suddenly as loathing filled him. He knew now. After all this time, he could finally center his rage on something. “How do I kill the thing that did this to my brother?”

Castiel watched him for a minute, then sighed heavily in frustration. “It's already dead, Dean. If I'm right, that was the explosion at the building where we lost Sam. The squall’s death is exactly what turned Sam.”

Conflict brewed in Dean's mind, but he nodded slowly. “Okay. Then how do I save my brother?”

The wind picked up inside the room, and Castiel smiled at it with a softness he rarely used. “I don't think he wants saving, Dean. He's not in pain.”

“How can you know that?” he shrieked in fury. 

But Castiel remained quiet, staring at something Dean could only feel. “He told me. He told me, and I can feel it's true.”

“All I feel is-”

“Your own grief,” Castiel said firmly. “He's happy, Dean.”

The hunter watched as the air in the room moved to catch his family pictures, and dance them about in a gentle display. He blinked hard, let the last of his tears plunge onto the floor, and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. That you, little brother?”

He felt a sigh all around him, and the photo that Bobby had taken, of the two of them laughing in front of the Impala, settled onto the bed in front of him. 

He snorted softly. “Okay. Okay. You're good, then I'm good. I just can't...But that's my issue. Just don't-don't go where I can't help you if you need me. Okay?” If he was losing his mind, at least he was hallucinating his brother safe and happy in a form not even demons, not even Lucifer, could reach him. 

“He will be fine, Dean.”

“Easy for you to say,” he snapped back. “Apparently he can talk to you!”

“I can feel him,” Castiel corrected. “And by manipulating objects, he can communicate with us both. Trust him, Dean.”

“Easy for you to say.” This time it was a low growl of defeat. “I'm the only human left.”

Castiel smiled, and put his hand on Dean's strong shoulder. “You and Sam have each become many things. But you will both always be the best among humanity. No matter what form you're in. As I understand this, your brother is safe, and content. If we discover that isn't so any longer, we will find a way to help him.”

“Because we always do.”

“Because we always do. Let Sam be happy.”

Dean swallowed, and looked around the room until his gaze and heart settled on the photograph on his bed. He lowered himself to sit, and held the picture in his hands reverently. “Safe and happy. Sammy, you gotta keep telling me, okay? Because...because I can't keep fighting if I don't know you're okay.”

This time, when the warm air caressed him, he felt his guilt and grief purge, felt his heart wring out all the pain, and fill again with peace. He sighed involuntarily, and expelled all his anger. This time, he let himself feel his brother, the strongest soul he had ever known, making him new again. 

“Sam,” he breathed. 

And all around him, the air whispered, “Shhh.”


End file.
